I hate ironing.

An incomplete list of things I'd prefer to do over attempting to iron a dress shirt:

• Lick a cactus.


• Have a snowball fight with Randy Johnson.


• Write a poetic ode extolling the virtues of John Thompson III and Georgetown University.


• Watch an episode of Sex and the City.


• Watch two episodes of Sex and the City.


• Eat a jar of mayonnaise.


• Singe off all my body hair using a blowtorch.


• Get chewed out by Jim Boeheim for ten minutes.


• Ask Jim Calhoun about Ryan Gomes.


• Munch on a nice hunk of tinfoil.


• Pry my teeth out one by one with a rusty set of pliers.


• Intentionally slam each of my fingers into a car door.


• Hunker down for an all-day Tyler Perry movie marathon.


• Count thousands of blades of grass, have some little kid come up and distract me about three quarters of the way through, and have to start over.

I can't think of any more. I don't like ironing, and I can't wait until I'm making 12 figures and I can just send my zillion-dollar shirts off to be dry cleaned every time I wear them.